Don't Fear the Reaper
by Kirrae
Summary: Dante had always been a smart boy- more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for.


A/N: A short, weird piece about the Sparda household, inspired, in part, by the Blue Oyster Cult's "Don't Fear the Reaper"

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><p>Don't Fear The Reaper<p>

Dante was hardly as dull as most thought him, Sparda knew this, but he had never seen his youngest son as esoteric as he was that night, eyes somber and dejected, and he spoke in a tone Sparda had never heard. It was nothing like Vergil's bookish arrogance or Dante's usual joking lilt- neither was it reminiscent of either of the boy's parents. He continued on with his, slightly depressing, musings on the states of life and death. Far too well informed for a boy who spent his days sleeping, but not for one who lived through the night, eyes dancing across pages and out over the landscape from large bay windows.

"It's funny, the humans all fear their deaths, as if they are some kind of evil. But it's a force of nature, how could it be either good or bad? You cannot ascribe morals to the seasons, to the function of the sun or moon. I just don't understand it. And yet, they have songs about it, as if it's a common thing for them. I suppose it is. Their lives are much shorter than that of your average Devil, after all. I wonder, how long will I live? Not that anyone knows. Vergil and I have survived longest of any other half-breeds, so the question will remain unanswered."

He was silent for a moment.

"Though some of them live in defiance of this. I think those are the ones we're most akin to. Because, for all of our differences, there is little separating Devils from Humans- appearances aside, at least. It makes me question myself, should I fear my death? Or should I simply accept that I will die when I will die and live as if every day could be my last, as I will never know when that day is?"

He paused for a while, then sighed. Obviously, the boy was looking for a response, and Sparda would give him one, as best he could, as least. He looked over at his son and thought for a moment. Just how to discuss this with one of the only remaining hybrids?

"Don't look at me like you're surprised."

"I beg your pardon."

"Dad, drop it. I know you don't always expect this of me, but I'm sure both you and Mom knew I just pretend to be an idiot."

"You don't usually make it so apparent that you do, son. That's all."

"Not gonna ask me why?"

"Would you tell me?"

"You'll have to ask to find out."

"_Dante, why must you always be so infuriating_?"

"Your fault, you named me."

He received a blank look from his sire.

"Vergil needs to feel as if he is the eldest. And being the eldest twin, he needs to be your heir in everything. So if he needs to think he's the more elegant fighter, the one with principles, the stronger son, the educated twin; I'll let him. Whatever it takes to keep him calm, to keep him here, I'll do it. I fear one day he'll go too far, and I know it'll be my fault. I'll make him doubt his place somehow."

"Dante, I-"

"It's not your fault, you always tried to treat us as equals, Mom too. But she would treat us as we needed her too. Which meant that Vergil got the responsibility and I got more of the doting, because he'd probably bite her hand off if she tried to feed him half as much as she does me. And I think, I think he doubts how much he means to her. Which is stupid, but for all of Verge's books, he can't read _people_. I suppose that's what happens when you spend all of your time in the library."

Sparda could barely believe that the small body in front of him was telling him all of this. For all that his sons were prodigies, he had not expected the nine year-old Dante to inform him that his eldest son was likely a highly-insecure time bomb. He was, unsurprisingly, proud and vaguely saddened.

"Just, when you see Vergil later, be sure to tell him you love him. Mom too. He'll need to hear it."

"I will son."

"Thanks."

"Now what brought this on?"

"You don't feel it?"

"What is it?"

"This could be our last night like this. You staying up all night with me only to see Mom and Verge in the morning and pretend like I hadn't been up as late as I was, that you got more than two hours of sleep. It'll be fall soon. Time for the harvest."

Dante left him early that night, giving him a brief, one-armed hug. He never mentioned it again, but Sparda could feel his son counting down the days, and hoping with childish determination that things would not go as he had imagined. And his son's mask was firmly in place, never slipping, even under cover of darkness.

Sparda remembered that night as he slowly slipped from consciousness, one thought remaining as he bled out at the hands of a resurrected Devil- _Please, let him be wrong_. But he knew his son wasn't. Dante had always been a smart boy- more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for. At least he would survive- enduring, everlasting. He could not say the same for his rigid, unflinching eldest- even steel is brittle if it cannot bend.

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><p>AN: Not too sure what to think of this, so I'd appreciate your thoughts on it.


End file.
